


A Meal to Savor

by cyoctrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Horror, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyoctrix/pseuds/cyoctrix
Summary: Harry has only been in this forest for three days and he's failed before he'd even really had the chance to truly begin.





	A Meal to Savor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Harry's a hopeful, young backpacker going on his first trip alone.  
Voldemort is the hungry monster in the forest Harry's just entered....

Most people tend to underestimate just how god-awful Harry's vision really is. For most people, if they take their glasses off, someone can hold up three fingers and the sight-impaired person in question can still count the blurs… but Harry can't even discern _those_. The hand and the fingers in that scenario are always just a flesh-toned blot to him.

That's why, when he loses his glasses whilst traveling alone in the Forest of Dean, Harry starts to hyperventilate a little.

"This isn't good," he says to himself thrice in rapid succession, clutching at his hair in a white-knuckled grip. The lenses, battered and beaten as they are, float down the stream for approximately twenty-five seconds before he realizes he maybe-probably-likely should have at least tried to go after them.

(Well, if only for posterity. Harry wouldn't have been able to see them, but trying would have been good.)

He'd assured his parents he'd be completely fine going on this trip alone. It was a coming-of-age ordeal,something his father had been waxing poetic about since he was small enough to believe anything he was told. Every Potter male since the thirteen-hundreds had made their way into this forest and lived off the beaten path for a month or two before heading home all the wiser and more appreciative for the finer things in life, according to James.

Harry learned later that it was more of a three-generation tradition, his great-grandfather having been the first to do it by necessity of evading the consequence of some law or another. So, maybe not the thirteen-hundreds, but close enough that the observation of the tradition was rather important to his father (and, admittedly, to himself after having heard it talked up so much whenever the subject came up).

Harry has only been in this forest for three days and he's failed before he'd even really had the chance to truly begin. 

He gropes at his pockets for his cellphone, clammy hands almost losing purchase in the process of unlocking and trying to dial. No service. He gives the phone a shake as though rough treatment will change its mind, but… nothing.

A string of colorful curses follows, a rotted log gets kicked, and one or two frustrated tears get shed. There's no one there to witness it, so Harry doesn't bother hiding his upset. He can't go back now, of course. His father wouldn't… blame him, per se, but there's always been that undercurrent of unhealthy competition between the two. This would really set Harry back.

After a good twenty-minute sulk, Harry steels himself and straightens from the slump he'd indulged against the nearest tree. Alright. _Alright_. So he's in the Forest of Dean, a rather long and brisk walk from the nearest civilization. He'd headed… northwest, because that's where he'd find the tree-etching to denote his father's final three weeks spent here. 

He could continue on, but eyeing the compass and the path ahead to ensure he has no more inconvenient falls would be a fool's errand, even for him. This isn't the best spot to set up camp, though. Harry tests the soil by burrowing the toe of his boot in. It's too loamy; there's not good enough purchase to set up a lean-to. He's close to the water, which is good, but he'll have to continue upstream for higher ground.

After taking a fortifying breath and wiping his face, Harry continues on, doing his level best to keep his path uphill and adjacent to the water. Each step is measured and over-careful and he uses his hands quite a bit to combat the shoddy depth perception. _Objects in vision may be closer than they appear_, he thinks to himself with a suppressed snort when his palm abruptly meets the rough bark of a tree.

Most of the plans Harry had jotted down last-minute in preparation for this trip are moot, now, or at least ten degrees more difficult than they would have been had he not lost eighty-five percent of one of his main senses. It's already taking longer than he'd anticipated to reach even this midway point of somewhere semi-okay to sleep for the first night.

The chirruping of small animals, the rustling of underbrush, and the muted babble of the running water to his right become more prominent as the sky darkens to a hazy blush, the canopy of leaves above Harry's head leaving him in shadow an unprecedented hour or two before expected.

When he eventually stops, it isn't because this is a spot that'll be in refreshing shadow come midday. It isn't because there's water nearby, or because the soil is good, or because he spots a few deep grooves in a tree to his immediate left denoting the presence of another long-ago Potter.

None of these things are the reason why he stops, even though they should be - it's mostly just that Harry is _tired_. When he sinks down between the sheltering roots of a great gnarled tree, it's because he just doesn't really want to walk anymore. 

He's already thinking about what he'll tell his father when this is all over - he'll talk all about the way he scouted the leaves for rodent leavings, found and skinned a rabbit dinner seasoned with wild mint, built a sturdy fire, boiled a piping cup of pine nettle tea, and jerry-rigged a fair lean-to all before sundown. 

(Only a fair one - James probably wouldn't believe he could make a great one and do all the rest in a single night.)

It's when Harry shrugs his backpack off and decides to remain in this alcove of roots for the night that he notices something odd.

The rustling that had been a chaotic rejoinder to Harry's cautious tread has gone silent. There are no birds chattering, no rodents chittering, no leaves crunching, no critters munching. When Harry gropes into the side pocket of his pack for his bush knife, the deafening sound of its zipper is swallowed by a cloak of steadily-creeping dark that clouds his already debilitated sight.

In this moment, Harry can't help but catalogue every memory of the discussions he'd had with his father regarding the Forest of Dean. He disregards the stories of James' Amazingly Advanced Bushcraft Skills and the charcoal sketches his father had done of the landscape in his downtime. The best way to build a fire isn't what he needs to remember right now, either - nor does he need to recall the spider that had gotten into his father's sleeping bag on the second week of his stay.

Harry thinks now of the uncharacteristic lowering of James' voice, the mysterious shuttering of hazel eyes. This was a different story, one he hadn't told before and one he probably wouldn't tell again. It just wasn't as fun.

_Everything was still. It was what had woken James up, his ears having long since become accustomed to the ever-present murmur of life around his encampment. This could have been a dream for how deep the darkness felt, like something squeezing his lungs just shy of asphyxiation. _

_"Who's there?" James had barked out, authoritarian and not afraid at all even though he was seventeen, only a year younger than Harry is now, and still hadn't even gotten up the courage to ask his mum out yet._

(Harry knows that James embellishes his stories, though he's never let on. He's a pretty good son, he thinks.)

_James brandished his blade, sharp enough to slice a leaf horizontally if he wanted, and directed it to the deeper shadows swallowed by the spots his dwindling fire didn't reach. When a low hissing met his ears, he aimed the knife lower, eyeing the decayed carpet of leaves for any sign of movement._

_It must have been at least two different snakes, maybe three. The sound was… well, James couldn't pinpoint a location for it at all, and he was ace at tracking. It seemed to come from all sides, but it never got any closer than the length of his fire's reach. _

_James hated snakes. He stayed up for hours that night waiting for something to emerge from the underbrush to try to bite him, but nothing ever did. He must have dozed off at some point in his watch, though, because it felt as though he'd blinked his eyes shut for only a moment in dark only to open them to the blistering light of midday. Despite the heat, he was shivering when he woke._

_Eighteen hours of sleep in total with nothing especially strenuous done the previous day to warrant excessive rest put James off from that spot for the last stretch of his stay in the forest. Despite his having been settled for a good few weeks already, he no longer felt safe there and promptly relocated with very manly haste._

'Follow your instincts,' James had told a much younger Harry, slugging him lightly on the shoulder. 'We're Potters. We're the best around for that, maybe to make up for the whole awful vision ordeal.' 

Well, Harry's instincts were already going haywire. He didn't have the wherewithal to swing his knife at the dark, but the part of him that didn't care about James' opinion would have been just fine running at breakneck speed away from this part of the forest, or maybe the forest in its entirety.

The thought is only fleeting, but it shames Harry into clamping down on the tremors of his hand and the harried trail of thoughts. There's nothing to be done for it, is there? If he dies tonight, he dies tonight. That's just… how it goes sometimes, right?

When the hissing starts up, though, the strung-out teenager kicks back so hard against the dirt that he's slammed into the wide trunk of tree at his back. 

(Okay, maybe he's not so ready to accept death after all.)

"Who's there?" Harry shouts into the dark, his breath coming in short, angry huffs. He ignores the crack in his voice. He hopes the snakes ignore it, too.

No matter which way he turns his head or his knife, the location of the hissing doesn't get any clearer. The noise itself undulates all around his tree-haven, the timbre of it almost melodic - it's not like any snake Harry has ever heard, and he's heard plenty. 

(Unlike his father, he actually rather likes snakes, but maybe-- maybe not so much right now.)

"_Really_," an exasperated Harry exhales after about ten minutes of this standoff, the tension in his posture sending out pulses of exhaustion that he feels down to the bone. He's not got the stamina to be afraid so long, and it shows in the way he slumps down into a half-crouch against his tree. Not a surrender, just… a brief reprieve. "Either try and kill me already or stop the bloody _hissing_, if you please."

The hissing stops.

What?

"Er." Harry will never admit it to anyone ever, but the crack in his voice at this moment has _become_ his voice, his lower register completely eradicated for the duration of his terrified befuddlement. "What the hell? Do you understand me? Are you a _person_?"

At the prospect of an actual breathing human person having witnessed his uncensored fear, Harry flushes deeply, the knife in his grip wavering lower. He waits to be confronted, maybe with a laugh to start and then a camera poking out from behind one of the bushes he's currently unable to discern. 'Gotcha!', maybe? Hopefully.

Nothing happens, though. The darkness keeps, silence heavy as it was before, but neither hissing nor laughter meets Harry's ears now.

Harry wets his lower lip with a dart of tongue, about to speak, but sometime between the nervous action and his next words, a low hum pierces the quiet. It coalesces quickly to a sound almost like a _purr_, and it's the worst noise Harry thinks he's ever heard in his life.

He's about to say something to this effect to cut some of the painfully avid fear with a bit of blue humor, but before he has the chance, it's as though every muscle in his body decides he's asleep and he crumples to the forest floor in an ungainly heap.

In his mind, Harry is yelling his wordless confusion, but outwardly he is still. The sensation is not unlike that of the prank Uncle Sirius used to pull where he'd lay a fist on Harry's head, smack the top of that fist with his palm, and let his fingertips cascade down the side of Harry's head. 'Felt like I cracked an egg over your head, doesn't it?'

Yes. Yes, it did. Instead of an egg, though, this is something… cold, alien, other. It slithers through Harry's veins like ice, a balm to his sweat-coated skin until it's not. All too soon, it begins to sear him from the inside, and it's all the worse for the fact that Harry can't even jerk like a dead fish like he feels like he'd be doing otherwise. His body is not cooperating.

It's when he feels something sharp scraping along his cheekbone that Harry's tears begin to flow in earnest. 

His eyes are half-lidded against his wishes, so his natural sight is even _further_ hindered, but Harry can just barely discern the silhouette of something… thin, sinuous, its proportions vaguely human but… not. 

When the humming resumes, newfound proximity to the source grants Harry the knowledge that the hissing of before was simply a whisper of this hum, and this hum a mere murmur of the harrowing croon that now makes the delicate hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Harry can barely draw breath for his terror, and it doesn't help that whatever sharp part of this creature pressed against his face trails down to his throat, something too-smooth and cool pressing against the fevered skin. It gropes… gently, for lack of a better word, for his racing pulse, the spare smattering of stubble along Harry's jaw briefly earning its feather-light attention.

He feels the thing move closer, feels the weight of its examination through the light pressure of what Harry can only call a hand cradling his throat. It would likely pin him in place even if he weren't somehow induced into a body-melting lethargy, such is the intensity of its regard.

"Ppllhh…" The word 'please' curtails with the breath Harry's been holding, the effort of this attempt to voice just the one word sapping what little energy remains. Harry can't even close his mouth, waves of cool fire lapping with mild cruelty just under his skin in a maddening pulse. 

He wonders, somewhat deliriously, if the ripple of its path is visible to one looking upon him now.

"No." 

Harry's heart skips two beats.

"You… are far more lovely than the other one," a hushed voice breathes into the shell of his ear - it's a smooth baritone with an otherworldly melodic lilt, its accent too abstruse for ready identification. The creature's breath is a miasma of rot and offal that makes Harry audibly gag, so awful is the stench. This brings it displeasure, evidently, because the hand on his throat suddenly shows its claws, and they _hurt_.

"Your fear is more poignant, Harry. It smells…" The first warm sensation Harry has felt in what feels to be ages cascades over his face, an amplified wave of that same smell from before making his otherwise pliant body seize of its own accord. "… absolutely _divine_."

It's opening its mouth to scent, so it _is_ a snake of some sort, the tiniest shred of rational Harry reasons underneath all the much-louder internal screaming. It's just… a very big one. With claws and functional vocal cords and a mind capable of sapience.

Decay wafts over Harry's face once more as the creature's exhales emerge in soft, serrated huffs. 

Laughter, Harry realizes belatedly. It's _laughing_.

"Oh, Harry, you're just de_light_ful. You're an _intelligent_ one, aren't you?" 

Another hand joins the first, cradling Harry's throat in a grip so gentle as to be nigh unbearable. Condescension ekes out through each syllable, the prone Harry heating with a flush of humiliation that does little (despite its seemingly best effort) to combat the persistent chill of the creature's presence.

"I am going to enjoy you." These words are pressed against Harry's mouth, cool lips meeting his in the parody of a lover's kiss. Harry feels the imprint of too many teeth, the barest sliver of two thin tongues meeting his in a delicate flick that feels like ice to his suddenly overheated body, the switch in temperature immediate and agonizing. The maw of the creature gapes open even wider than it had done before, as if it _just can't help_ scenting Harry again. 

"You are going to be _savored_, Harry Potter."

Before his world tilts and shadow convalesces into unconsciousness, the last thing Harry feels is the full weight of the creature's form crushing him into twining roots that bite into his back, that confining hold an embrace that claims what breath remains.


End file.
